


The Matters of Bereaved Men (Major Spoilers!)

by CharbroilLaFlamme



Series: A Way Out: Fragments of Story [7]
Category: A Way Out (Video Game)
Genre: Coping, Drinking to Cope, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Grieving, Guilt, Headcanon, Major Spoilers, Mild Language, Police, Reference to Alcohol Use, Spoilers, Tags Contain Spoilers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, familial death, loss of a loved one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 06:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15188654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharbroilLaFlamme/pseuds/CharbroilLaFlamme
Summary: Vincent deals with the loss of his brother in his own special way—drinking and pondering.(References to drinking in this so be aware!)





	The Matters of Bereaved Men (Major Spoilers!)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer!:  
> This is based on headcanon road so it may or may not take a sharp left from canon!

So Gary was gone. Vincent accepted this—but it didn’t mean he had to accept it gracefully.

He accepted it like one would accept the ugly truth after a lie that had overstayed its welcome.

And the ugly truth was that he had facilitated Gary’s passing by letting him go in on his own.

“ _Ahh, shit..._ ” Vincent was starting to get philosophical on himself. Thinking about what lie beyond.

Needed another drink.

He didn’t normally drink. But somehow it seemed like a sensible thing to do at the time.

He _knew_ it wasn’t, but it was only temporary, and he wasn’t going to sit there and feel sorry. He wanted to feel good about himself.

It’d only be fleeting. And he would just walk home, anyhow. He didn’t live too far off from a bar—hence why he’d walked.

Once or twice he had to flash his ring finger, to ward some admirers off like demons with a cross.

Other than that, he was pretty contented.

At least until he’d gotten the time—and learned that it was past twelve.

He’d left the barstool overturned in his effort to get back home within five minutes. He’d paid for his drinks before bolting out of the place.

But halfway home, he found himself slowing down to a half-walk. Dizzy and contemplative.

He’d tried to stave off his thoughts for just long enough before he got home. So he could be miserable in his own home.

But it was for naught. He was drunk, and feeling worse than ever.

_Great, Carol’s gonna hate me, the force is gonna hate me, Gary’s gonna—_

Vincent stopped at an intersection, looking back and forth for cars.

But he stuck at the intersection for a while, silently wondering why his face was wet and his throat felt sore.

_Gary’s..._

Everything was blurry. The streetlights were all becoming vague, smudgy blotches in his vision.

He concluded that he was, indeed, crying.

But he wasn’t wailing, not sobbing.

No, he didn’t have the energy to—he had barely the energy to carry himself home after his bout of introspectiveness.

Gary had hardly been out to see the world—and it was Vincent’s fault.

He’d pushed his brother to go forward. He believed in his brother.

He’d given his brother a drink of hope laced with the highs of a brother’s encouraging words.

Vincent half-hugged the street light pole, allowing himself to cry in solitude and the quiet—mingling with the sounds of the city.

 

* * *

 

He came home to see Carol, in the family’s armchair, sitting with her knees up on it, looking at him—half-concerned and half-disappointed.

But Vincent didn’t have the strength in him to explain his reasons for being home about two hours late. But he knew he felt awful for it. His wife must have been worried sick.

But one thing ran through his head: _Sleep._

All he wanted was his bed, and his wife’s company, and aspirin.

His sanity was Carol. The one thing that he could count on making Hell bearable.

Sure she could be a little stern, maybe even a bit chilly—but she was witty, and he loved her, and she knew him.

She _knew_ him.

Vincent was grateful to her for knowing him.

Vincent barely felt lucid, blearily pulling himself against her in their twin bed.

No questions, nothing but silence as his wife gently combed her fingers through his messy hair.

She knew all too well that he blamed himself for all of it.

But how could he have known it would turn out this way?

She sighed. “I love you, Vincent.” She said, she meant it.

Vincent placed his face in her neck. Responding a few seconds later. “I love you, too, Carol.”

They both wanted to say more, but they were exhausted—then words became obsolete between them afterward as torpor took the both of them.


End file.
